The Echoing Bench

The good times. I lay above the world with the wind blowing against my spine. The sun shone and fed me. The roots beneath my world stabilized us.

Each of us stood connected to the other; the branches of life made sure of that.

I didn’t know any of the others personally; they couldn’t speak. But I knew them in a space beyond the personal level; I could feel them in every step of life. I felt them rustle in the wind.

I felt them feed.

Breathe.

Bathe.

Fall.

I liked to imagine what they would say if we could discuss like the humans below us. Maybe we’d ponder the weather, maybe we’d question the monotony of it all, or perhaps we’d argue over the bark.

I watched another sun rise below us. I watched the humans exit their stone structures and climb into their metal horses. The air around the humans was heavy, and the sun shone louder.

I wondered where the humans were going in such a rush. There was nowhere to run to. Life ends, for us and to itself. Did they look down at their pocket squares to forget that truth?

I wondered if I, barely conscious and immovable, lived a life fuller than those below us. I pondered this feeling of contempt, wondering where it came from. My stem? Or somewhere I couldn’t see or have forgotten?

Then came the old man. He was a human. One well past his prime. His shield of skin had loosened. His head of fur had fallen and lost its color. His form shook with every step he took. He seemed to wither the more he breathed, as if he were allergic to the very air.

He moved more slowly than the humans, but he was deliberate in his steps, in his glances. It seemed as if he were scared he’d tear open the world around him. He wore rims of gold around his eyes; adjusting them, he dropped onto a bench.

The bench creaked under the weight of his brittle bones. A sigh of content left his lips. A familiar one.

He sat there and watched us. He watched as the wind blew over our frames. He watched as critters climbed our homes. He watched as caterpillars fed on us. He watched as butterflies emerged from death.

His facial lines turned upward. An intense feeling of happiness emerged from the man. How could a man feel happy without moving? I had watched them, and none relinquished their freedom of movement like the man. No human gave off the feeling of that man in that moment.

A feeling of happiness so thick and heavy it weighed on me.

I watched as the man experienced our view in a way I could not understand from above.

Weeks passed like this. The old man seemed to come every day. He did not tire of the same sight, of the same bench, of the same trees, of the same leaves. He watched and felt that unwavering joy.

Every day he watched. And every day I grew angrier. I wanted to ask the man many questions. Whether he sat because he couldn’t walk. Whether he lived while waiting for death. Whether he feared death as it drew nearer. Whether he will tire of watching the same painting.

I didn’t know what I felt towards the man. But I knew I was angry. He had the ability to move. He could watch anything. And yet he didn’t. He sat still. Longer than the humans around him. Longer than the critters in the trees. Longer than we on our branches. How could he? How could he have the abilities of a human and yet live like a leaf?

And one day the man didn’t come. His impression of the wood on that bench seemed like a dream. His form had been so loud and yet so present.

After realizing that his time on that bench was of the past, no more;

The way the gold rims on his face would shimmer with the sun,

The space the curves of his face filled up,

And the noise he seemed to calmly drown out.

My anger grew. I definitely hated the man.

He sat on the bench. Then refused to sit again.

Days began to blend together.

The winds picked up.

The humans began to wear thicker fur.

The days of holding onto the branch grew longer. I grew weak. I didn’t have any reason to hold onto it anymore. And yet I did. The image of the golden man on that bench resurfaced. Did I refuse to let go because I enjoy being on the tree or because I fear what comes after?

The winds overpowered me.

I did not resist. I knew this was the time.

The winds carried me, and yet I flew.

The winds had freed me.

I was free.

I spun.

And spun.

But the sights I saw were brand new. I moved farther than I had seen humans, higher than they ever could. The power was exhilarating. The rush felt new.

And yet I didn’t slow. I moved faster and faster. The rush began to overwhelm. The freedom became chains.

Time slipped, and I had lost myself. I had lost the tree on which I rested and with it the sustenance of dependency. And yet I was no happier for it. I had dried out, wrinkled, and withered. I had become a shell of my former glory.

The winds began to die down. My movements slowed, and I drifted. Lost, alone, and scared.

Then I stopped. A familiar sound of wood creaking echoed.

I looked, and a bench lay under me. A bench that had plagued my thoughts for eons. And I smiled. The curves on my face rose as I watched the new tapestry of a season get painted.

I adjusted my figure, looking down, I saw that my form had turned a fresh gold, which reflected the sun.

I had become an old man.

I smiled…not out of happiness, but realization.

I smiled and waited for the day of rebirth…a day that will eventually come.

The day where I won’t know…what I hide from my eyes.

Where I forget…myself

A time, I hold on…to the illusion.

A space, I look down…on my reflections.

Scene, I anger…beyond apathy.

Winds, I lose myself…for a moment.

When I am but a simple leaf.